


Ties That Bind

by meteorite_dreams



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, And then Vampires fuck everything up, Basically everyone is supernatural in some aspect, Basically the gang is chilling, Bellamy moves in and doesn't know about the supernatural, Eventual smut if I can ever try and make myself write it, Except the Blakes, F/M, Gets a bit dark, Roomates!Bellarke, Warlock!Miller, witch!Clarke, witch!Raven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-15 20:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meteorite_dreams/pseuds/meteorite_dreams
Summary: Clarke’s life had always been filled with magic. But when she uses her powers to cross the bridge between life and death, she learns the hardest lesson: magic comes at a cost.





	1. Hit the Ceiling

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is the first fanfic I’ve written for The 100. I’ve shipped Bellarke since episode one, and I’ve always wanted to portray them in my own way. I have written fan fiction before; however, I was very young then, so I may be a bit rusty. I love the supernatural, and after I read a few supernatural Bellarke fics, I felt inspired to write this. I am open to criticism as I always hope to improve. The later chapters will be longer than this, as this chapter is more of an introduction. I hope you like it!
> 
> Also: shout out to Kenz for proofreading!

It all began with a request.

The day was quiet. Peaceful. Clarke was hovering above the couch, nothing but air filling the space beneath her. She could feel her pride swelling; almost two feet spanned between where she ended and the cushions began. She’d been agonizing over levitation for weeks now, and Sundays were her practice days. It had been a trial — she had fallen more times than she could remember since she began her training, earning bruises and curses alike — but today was different. She was closer than ever to reaching that point when levitation would no longer be a struggle but instead an instinct. Every second in the air was a small victory. She was going to make it. Four more seconds. Three more seconds. Two—

Octavia burst into the living room without warning, the old door slamming shut behind her. Clarke’s concentration snapped, and she toppled onto the couch. Raven calmly tapped her phone, ending the running timer. “Almost five minutes, Clarke,” she informed. Clarke’s face went completely red.

She turned on their intruder. “Damnit, Octavia! You ruined my levitation!” Octavia didn't even blink. Clarke swore and curled her legs beneath her. Hours, hours had gone by and yet she still couldn’t reach the five minute mark. Her father reached ten minutes at age twelve, and yet Clarke couldn’t even get half of that time in her twenties. She blew a strand of hair from her face.

“Chill, hostility,” Raven said, head buried in her book. “It will happen when it happens.” Her dark eyes met Octavia’s. The younger brunette was in an obvious state of distress, but with Octavia, that wasn’t exactly a rarity. “What’s up?” 

“What’s up is that my brother is ruining my life!” She threw her purse to the floor, collapsing beside Clarke a moment later. “He tries to control everything! First he yelled at me for getting up too late, but two days later he yelled at me for getting up too early! It was only eight! Then, he kept asking who I was talking to whenever I called Lincoln, so often that I actually had to barricade myself in my room and lock the door!”

“That’s tragic, O,” Raven placated. She didn’t look up from her book. 

“That’s not even the worst of it!” Octavia continued, “He’s invaded every corner of my house! He complained about the clutter in my living room, and then he took over every inch of countertop with his stupid books! I can’t even put my lemonade down without having to move Homely’s Odyessy or some shit.”

“Homer,” Clarke corrected, somewhat under her breath. Octavia turned her unhappy gaze upon the blonde beside her. “Seriously, Clarke?”

“That’s his name!”

“So not the point right now!”

A loud thud brought them out of their quibble. Raven had levitated the coffee table just high enough for it to make a solid thump. It rocked for a moment before settling back into its spot. “Okay,” Raven began, “We now understand that Clarke can’t levitate, Homer wrote The Odyessy, and Bellamy Blake can be a royal ass. The question is, O: what are you going to do about it?” 

Octavia folded her arms over her chest. “Well, I can’t kick him out. If I want him gone, I’ll have to find him somewhere else to live. But who rents in July? Most college kids hit the road long before now.” She looked between Clarke and Raven, and Clarke could almost see the lightbulb click on over her head. Oh, fuck no.

She tried Clarke first, pulling her face into a pitiful frown. Clarke shook her head. “No, Octavia. Just. No.”

“Oh please, Clarke! He’s so much better around other people! And I know you two like each other, even if it's just a little!” Clarke didn’t budge. Octavia glared. Then, “Don’t take it out on us just because you can’t levitate!”

Clarke spluttered, reaching for her words and also Octavia’s throat. Raven’s book started to shake violently on the table, to which Raven responded by laying a steady hand on its cover. “Clarke, calm down, you know she’s just upset. Octavia, Bellamy can’t move in with us. He'll drive Clarke up the wall, and then he will end up on the ceiling, and we just can’t explain that to the landlord.” 

“But he’s driving me up the wall! And he doesn’t have to know that you guys are witches. Just turn your pages on your own and stop floating,” Octavia said.

“He would know within the week,” Clarke said.

“Probably before then,” Raven added. Octavia huffed, sinking into the worn couch cushions. They were originally blue, but now they had faded to an almost brown color. She pulled her feet up to her chest. For a moment it was silent, but then Octavia spoke again, somewhat reluctantly. “It’s just that… it’s been rough with him the last few months, okay? All we do is scream at each other now. I don’t even want to go home most days because I know it’s just going to be more of the same. And every time we fight, I feel like… like we’re losing each other.” She looked away from them then, directing her gaze towards the window. Tears welled in her eyes. Raven and Clarke shared a long look, unspoken communication passing between them. Raven nodded solemnly. 

With a sigh, Clarke wrapped her arms around Octavia. “Look, O. Raven and Bellamy barely get along, and I fight with him if we’re in the same room for too long.” Octavia let out a little sniffle. “But, if you are so miserable with sharing your living space with him… then he can take the spare room. Even if it means he’s going to eventually find out about our magic.”

Octavia turned so quickly that it startled Clarke. She hugged her with a death grip. “Oh, thank God! I thought you guys might actually say no!” With a grin, she sprang to her feet, pecking Raven on the cheek. Clarke stared at her in shock. Octavia scooped up her purse in one swoop, waving at them. “Love you both! Have fun with levitation!” And with that she was gone, rushing out of their home and into the humid summer air. 

There was a long pause. 

“We were conned,” Clarke said, finally.

Raven smiled, and black wisps sprouted from her fingertips. “We can always hex her later.”  
_____________________________________________________________

Bellamy Blake moved in that Thursday, to Clarke’s dismay. She and Raven had hidden all their grimoires away in snug nooks and crannies, along with anything else he could deem “strange” — bells and bowls with ancient symbols, candles, crystals, knives — Clarke’s closet was brimming with magical objects, and all she could do was scowl as she thought about how she would have to tiptoe around Bellamy in her own home. She tried not to focus on it, instead focusing on how happy Octavia seemed as she carted in box after box — but bitterness nagged at her, reminded her of how this would setback her practices. Raven was right — there was no rush — and yet a voice inside her urged to her to get back to work. She bit at her nails.

A warm hand rested on her shoulder. She knew it was Miller from the glow of his energy, the soft blue that washed over her mind when he touched her. “God Clarke, you’re wound tight as a clock,” he observed, laughing a bit. “I know it’s Bellamy, but you can take him. Hell, we can even tag team him if you want.” Clarke allowed herself to smile.

“I heard that,” Bellamy announced from the spare bedroom, drawing another smile from Clarke. 

“We’ll have to plot more quietly next time,” he said, winking at her. Clarke could feel her shoulders ease. Miller always had this effect on her — the calming, strong aura that surrounded him reminded her of her father, whose aura was also painted in the same hues. Nathan was one of them — a sorcerer, a warlock, what have you — and he knew how difficult it was to hide magic from housemates; he’d done it for almost an entire year with his now-boyfriend before he finally fessed up in a proclamation of love that would have impressed even Shakespeare. Clarke only had to make it until the end of the summer, when Miller promised them that Bellamy could move into his apartment just inside the city. Until then, Clarke and Raven would be shoving grimoires under beds and in drawers for some time to come. 

Raven passed by them then, three swaying boxes towering over her head. Miller laughed at the sight. “Let me help you with that,” he said, arms already outstretched to help her. She shrugged him off, informing him that she was “an independent woman who needed no man,” and she grinned as she said so. Unable to see her own feet, Raven hardly noticed the rug — that was, until her foot caught in the fabric, and she pitched violently forward. Clarke and Miller reached forward in reflex, and everything slowed down. Clarke’s magic jutted forward, seizing Raven before she could knock her head against the floor, and Miller’s magic propelled the boxes. Raven eased her arms to the ground and Clarke’s magic slowly released its hold; but the boxes floated for a moment as Miller decided how best to land them. Octavia decided to stick her head in the doorframe that instant, her eyes widening. “Guys!” she cried, gesturing to the footsteps on the stairs. The boxes crashed against the hardwood.

Bellamy paused on the steps, staring at the toppled boxes in horror. For a moment, no one breathed.

“Who let Raven carry boxes?” he barked, finishing the last few steps. “You know she always takes on too many.” He looked at Raven pointedly then, gesturing at her place on the ground.

“Fuck off, Blake,” Raven glowered. And then Miller laughed.

They weren’t going to last a week. 


	2. But I scream too loud (if I speak my mind)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and bookmarks! 
> 
> I'm pulling some titles from Halsey's album _hopeless fountain kingdom_ , if you were curious.

_To levitate successfully, the mind must be cleared of all distractions. You must be entirely focused on your goal. With your mind at peace, your consciousness will ascend, and so will you…._

“Clarke.”

Clarke pulled back abruptly, effectively halting her studies. Murphy quirked an eyebrow at her. “You alright? I’ve been calling your name for a solid minute.”

Clarke just smiled apologetically. “Sorry, I’ve just been caught up in this. What can I do for you?” Murphy took a heavy book from under his arm and placed it before her. Clarke studied the cover for a moment: a gruff man stood with his back to a magnificent ship, ferocity in his stare. “Blackbeard, huh?” she asked as dings and clicks began to sound beside her. The cash register began to ring up the total with its keys moving of their own accord; it was one of her favorite tricks she’d learned when she first bought the store, even if she could only utilize it when in magical company. 

Murphy looked at his hands, the hint of a smile on his face. “Yeah, you know how Emori is. She’s not much for the romance novels.” 

“Oh, I know,” Clarke laughed, “Thieves and treachery are more her thing. Gift wrap?”

Murphy shrugged like he hadn’t been planning on asking for it, but Clarke knew better. “Yeah, sure,” he said noncommittally. The book began to wrap itself. He took another look at the book Clarke had pushed to the side. “Reading your grimoire here? Are you telling me Bellamy still doesn’t know yet?” 

“You know you still haven’t paid me yet, right?” she asked.

“You know you’re avoiding the question, right?” he countered.

Clarke huffed, frustrated. “No, he doesn’t know yet. Raven and I have actually managed to keep it under wraps,” she said, “And I refuse to be the one who breaks the streak!” Murphy snorted. Clarke could feel her blood pressure rise. “What? What is so damn funny?”

“The fact that you think Raven Reyes is going to break before you,” he laughed. “Not only is Raven, well, _Raven_ — but your magic always goes haywire whenever you get angry. Everyone has a tell when it comes to how they’re feeling — yours just happens to be books throwing themselves off their shelves.” Clarke glared at him, wondering how he would feel if she hung him upside down by his feet while she finished closing up. Maybe then he would know how dedicated she was to keeping her secret.

“I have kept my temper in check with him,” Clarke said defensively. 

Murphy looked at her expectantly. “And how long do you think that will last? It’s been what, six weeks? It’s Bellamy. He always tries to get under your skin. And you usually let him.” 

“Keep talking and you’ll feel bugs crawling under _your_ skin,” she threatened, and the lights flickered above them. She shoved the book toward him. Murphy looked more amused than frightened, a smirk painted across his face. He may have been one of the first warlocks she met in D.C., but that didn’t mean she would hesitate to hex him in an instant. He was still Murphy.

Clarke thrust her hand forward, open palmed. He deposited the money into that palm, the shit-eating grin never leaving his face. With a curt wave, he took the book from the counter and began to back away from the counter. “If it helps, you’ve already made it way longer than any of us thought you would,” he said, “And I’m sure you’ll have no problem spending the weekend alone with him.”

“Leave, Murphy!” Clarke yelled, golden swirls erupting around her. The shelves began to vibrate. Murphy laughed hysterically, the door finally jingling behind him.

All the air whooshed from Clarke at once, and she slumped over the counter. Her magic had been pent up for weeks, putting her more on edge than ever, and she didn’t need another reminder that everyone expected her to fuck this up. She knew the day would come eventually, but she didn’t want it to be tonight, or tomorrow, or because of her, for that matter. She didn’t want Bellamy to look at her with fear in those brown eyes. She didn’t want to be forced to use an erasure spell if it all went bad. Everyone acted like it would just be a small bump whenever it finally arose, an inconvenience that could be smoothed over after a few hours of talking. But Clarke knew better. He would be confused and hurt, and maybe even _scared_ , and even though he infuriated her, even though he picked fights for no reason and ruined more than a few of her good moods, she didn’t want him to feel that way. But every time the group discussed when they should tell him, it was never the time. He was in a horrible mood, or he was busy, or he was dealing with something heavy. It was never the right time. And the thought of Bellamy's reaction plummeted Clarke into a pit of anxiety and tension.

A warm hand rubbed her shoulder. Clarke peeked up from underneath her arm. Lincoln stood in front of her with coffee in hand, a gentle smile on his face. “Do not worry, Clarke. It will be fine. And when the time comes, Bellamy will understand,” He pushed the mug forward, the smell of cinnamon wafting from it. Her favorite.

“Are you saying that because you’re a seer or because you’re an optimist?” she asked, cracking her neck as she evened herself out again. 

“Both. I know your relationship with Bellamy is rather complex—.”

“You could say that,” Clarke laughed bitterly, the mug warming her hands.

“—But he will understand. Try breathing exercises, in the meantime,” he leaned forward, his tribal tattoo peeking out from beneath his tank top, “I sometimes use them with Octavia.”

Clarke smiled at that. The pair had been together for nearly a year now, and they were more in love than ever. In most ways, Clarke was happy for them, but in other ways, seeing their happiness made some lesser part of Clarke ache.

He gestured to the coffee bar, “I’m going to finish cleaning up.” A beat. “Maybe you should head home. I can lock up tonight.”

She frowned. “What about Octavia? Isn’t she expecting you?” Clarke asked. Lincoln had moved in with Octavia shortly after Bellamy had vacated the premises, and Octavia had been floating on clouds for weeks. Bellamy, on the other hand, had grumbled endlessly. 

Lincoln shook his head. “She’s working late tonight. You’d be saving me from an empty apartment.” Clarke considered it. She could use the extra hour, but then again, that would be an extra hour with Bellamy….

He smiled at her, and her resolve broke. “Okay. But only because you asked.” She began to gather her things, slipping the grimoire into her bag. Only when she was at the door did she pause. She looked towards the coffee bar, where her coworker was washing mugs. “Lincoln… do you really think he’s going to understand?” she asked.

Lincoln didn’t even look up. “Of course, Clarke. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she said, and pushed herself into the September evening.

_______________________________________________________________________

When Clarke returned home, she found Bellamy asleep on the couch. His book was lying haphazardly across his lap, his page lost for good. The only light came from the lamp beside the sofa, so he hadn’t nodded off too long ago. She crept as quietly as she could to him and took the book from his lap, placing it on the table. His chest rose and fell with every deep breath, and she couldn’t help but watch him for a moment. In this state, she truly saw him. There were no creases in his forehead, no frown on his lips. She had never seen him look so unbothered before. Yes, he had lightened up in the last few weeks — had even been _pleasant_ to her on occasion— but this was different. He didn’t seem so much older now, so harried. She knew much of it was because he was going back to school for his degree, but still. He tried to hide his stress, but to her he was transparent. He was like her in that way: anxious of the unknowns, of the _what ifs_ and the _what nows_. Had he ever noticed the similarity? And would he have said something if he had?

Clarke shook her head; she’d been staring far too long. She clicked off the lamp and padded her way up the two flights of stairs. Two bedrooms were located on the second floor, but Clarke had chosen the attic bedroom when she first moved in. She liked the skylight and the slant of the walls. She’d always preferred to stay on the highest floor of a building, whether it was a house, apartment, or dorm. It made her feel safer, somehow. Like she was closer to the sky this way, to the hereafter, or wherever it was her loved ones were. Her gaze traveled to the portrait of Wells that she’d painted at fourteen; one of her first. He had smiled so widely when she had presented it to him, hugging her so tightly she thought she might be crushed. Even her mother had smiled at the painting, when her husband had showed her. “You’re good, Clarke. But I wish you’d focus more on your studies,” she had said, both igniting and dampening Clarke. But her father had nudged her with his shoulder, telling her that creativity beat studying every time.

She fell onto her back. The moon shone brightly through the skylight, illuminating her room. Constellations danced across her ceiling; she’d painted them shortly after moving in. Raven had helped her cover the ceiling in bluish-purple paint beforehand, and she had sworn loudly when it dripped onto her. The constellations had come after, blooming like flowers across the plaster. There was still room for more, she thought. But for now, she was content. 

Her eyes closed slowly, and her mind began to stray. At first she thought of Orion in the night sky, focusing on the broadness of his chest and then the sharp lines of his face. As he became more human, he began to resemble Bellamy. His hair was dark as night, and his eyes glittered dangerously. The image was so clear to her now; his shield was held high above his head, and his muscles rippled beneath his armor, straining against the metal as he leapt into action. She could see him there among the stars, battling the scorpion every night. Just as he lifted his club, Clarke felt the bed disappear from beneath her.

Subconsciously, she knew what was happening, but she was too engrossed in her thoughts to let it gain her focus. All she saw was him swinging at the scorpion, sweat beading at his brow. He was covered in it. A pang of something rushed through her, and she felt herself lifting higher still, completely emerged in the fantasy. He raised the club above his head again, and her breath hitched. This was it — the deafening blow. 

He brought his weapon down in a swift motion, and it collided with the head of the beast. Its armor shattered completely; not in the way of breaking glass, but with a resounding thunk, as if it had collapsed in on itself. Clarke’s eyes shot open, and she fell an entire six feet onto her bed. She heaved, sitting up immediately.

Oh, God.

Bellamy was standing just inside the door, his mouth agape. His arm was still outstretched, his fingers frozen in place. Clarke’s eyes trailed down to where he had dropped her bag onto the floor. A choked sound escape his throat.

“B—Bellamy,” Clarke began, starting to move, but he was already down the stairs, his footsteps falling heavy as he took them two steps at a time. “Bellamy!” she yelled again, but he didn’t answer. Her heart was beating erratically in her chest. She drew in a sharp breath and closed her eyes, imagining the front door.

Within an instant she was there, teleported to the exact spot. By that time, Bellamy had already reached the bottom of the staircase. He stopped dead in his tracks once he caught sight of her. “How— How did you— what the _hell_ is going on, Clarke?” he barked, clearly shaken. She wanted to answer, but her mouth had turned to sand. “Say something!” he yelled.

Clarke desperately attempted to reign in her nerves. “Calm down, Bellamy.”

That, apparently, was the exact wrong thing to say; he exploded into a fury, his hands cutting through the air as he gestured about. “Calm down, Clarke? Excuse me if I’m a bit tense after witnessing you hovering over your bed like a scene out of the fucking _Exorcist!_ ” Bellamy rumbled. When she looked him in the eye again, he was glowering. Clarke cringed at the intensity of glare, and the strain in his voice made her feel tired and guilty all at once. Vaguely, the words from the erasure spell entered her mind; she shoved them back.

“Give me a second, okay!” she yelled back. Her head was swimming with the situation at hand, and it was doing nothing for her attempt at explanation. “Just sit down. I’ll explain.” He stared at her for a long moment; Clarke thought that he was debating whether to listen or to continue yelling at her. “Fine,” he muttered. He took his seat on the sofa and waited. Clarke tried to calm her heart, barely resisting the urge to shove her fingers into her mouth and bite. Finally, she sat down in recliner opposite of him. If only her leg would stop _shaking_. For a moment, they sat in silence. “Well?” Bellamy prodded. His arms crossed over his chest in defense.

Clarke looked down at her bare feet, a sigh escaping her. “I’m trying to think of how to start.”

Bellamy scoffed. “Clarke Griffin, at a loss for words? That’s new,” he said drily. Somehow, it gave her courage. 

“I’m a witch,” Clarke admitted, meeting his gaze. “I’ve been a witch since birth. My father was supernatural, and my grandmother, and my great-grandfather, and… so on. It isn’t something I could change, not that I’ve ever desired to. My magic isn’t inherently good or evil; whether it becomes one or the other depends on the person wielding it, and so far the worst thing I’ve done with it… is keep it from you.” Clarke deflated under the weight of her confession, knowing it to be true. How could she have convinced herself for so long that keeping this from him was the right thing to do? If only she could have seen him as he was in that moment, with his shield held high against her. She would have gone to him and revealed everything, with a wisp of gold curled around him to show that yes, she was serious, and no, he didn’t have to be angry or afraid. But she had been afraid herself, and now here they were, an ocean of uncertainty between them. 

“So, I’m not dreaming?” Bellamy asked.

“No.”

Bellamy chewed on that for a moment, before he asked, “Does Raven know?”

“She’s like me — a witch, I mean.” Bellamy swore. “So is Miller, and Monty, and Murphy—.” 

“Murphy,” Bellamy repeated disbelievingly, “Murphy is a witch?”

“A warlock, yes,” Clarke answered, “And his girlfriend, Emori.”

Bellamy laughed humorlessly, rising to his feet. He began to pace. “So, let me get this straight. You’re telling me that all of my friends, everyone that I _fucking know_ , are supernatural beings? That I’ve been living in a world that I thought only belonged in books this entire time, and no one thought it was worth the trouble to let me in on this fact?” She could see the hurt flash across his face, only for his features to mask themselves in anger once again. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that Octavia’s a witch too, right? And Lincoln, what is he, a werewolf? A vampire? A reanimated corpse?” he questioned.

“Octavia is in no way supernatural,” Clarke said.

He knew by her tone that he was correct on the latter. “But Lincoln is, isn’t he?” Bellamy had stopped his pacing to look at her. Clarke sighed, rubbing her face. “Yes, okay? But he isn’t a werewolf, or anything like that. He’s a seer. He can sense the supernatural, and he has a sort of insight into the future. He’s the first and only one that I’ve met.”

“And Octavia knows this?” he asked.

“Yes. She knows about all of us.”

Bellamy smiled bitterly. “But not me. I’m not good enough for the truth, is that it?”

“You know that isn’t it!” Clarke argued, rising to her feet. She couldn’t stand the look on his face. “We wanted to tell you, but it was never the time! You think it’s easy knowing about the supernatural? It’s not! We weren’t trying to keep you out of the loop to be cruel, Bellamy. You have always dealt with so much. We were trying not to burden you!” 

“I can determine what is and isn’t a burden, Clarke. That isn’t for the rest of you to decide!” he yelled. His chest was heaving with exertion, and a flush had climbed up his neck. 

Clarke withered. “You’re right,” she conceded. “We should have told you. _I_ should have told you. Honestly, I…” Clarke paused for a moment, forcing herself to continue, “I was afraid of what you would think once you knew what I was. That you’d believe I’m some kind of devil-worshipper, or child-sacrificer, or a freak in general.” Her voice was barely above a whisper as she admitted what she had always feared: that the tentative connection they had would be severed indefinitely, and she would be left to wallow in her darkness alone.

Bellamy entrapped her fingers with his, taking her hand gently. “Clarke,” he began, his tone so soft that she peered up from beneath her lashes, “I could never think of you like that, alright? I couldn’t even try.” 

“Not even if I float in front of you and disappear into thin air?” she sniffled.

He grinned. “Not even then.”

She hiccuped, suddenly, and then she wrapped her arms around him. He stilled, startled by the contact, but accepted her embrace nonetheless. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. She buried her face in the crook of his neck.

“I forgive you,” he murmured, his breath ghosting her hair. She felt herself shudder against him. So many nights she had laid awake and thought of him; sometimes, it was angrily, as she often locked herself in her room after a fight. Oftentimes, she thought of him dejectedly, or worriedly, letting her fears carry her away as he sneered at her again and again in her dreams. But there were also nights when she would explore the image of him, letting her mind conjure his eyes, his mouth, his skin. This would be one of those nights. 

Aware of this realization, Clarke pulled away from him; his eyes were bright. He looked her over. “It’s past midnight, and you look dead on your feet. Get some rest,” he ordered, pushing at her playfully. 

She glanced at the stairs. It was tempting. “What about you?” she asked.

Bellamy snagged his book off the table and tapped the cover. “This should keep me occupied. I’m not going to be able to sleep for a while.”

Clarke nodded. “Understandable.” A yawn drifted from her, to which Bellamy smiled. “Goodnight, princess,” he told her, already flipping through the novel to find his page.

Clarke bid him goodnight and teleported back to her bed. She found sleep an hour later with constellations painted on her eyelids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? I dig the Clarke/Murphy dynamic in the show, and I tried to bring that out here. 
> 
> Also, another thank you to Kenzie for making this chapter comprehensible.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome. Feel free to follow me on my [tumblr](http://ashlydite.tumblr.com/)


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